Posted in Rituals


She said she knew immediately why he was there
she didn’t need to – but did
a glance
and to the right
the pitch of his trousers. Yes.

At home she would have told him
not interested,
go away,
get lost.
But here
living and working on site
required caution, dexterity.

She invited him in
asked about him and his
feigning interest in his family
and told of hers
and the man at home
whom she missed
looked forward to being reunited with
when the season was over.
Half an hour of fabrication she said
better than several months of slow burn.




Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.